


Vinny can do it himself

by kitsune



Category: Hockey RPF, You Could Make a Life - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:09:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6558859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsune/pseuds/kitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas will swear, in English, French, or Finnish (thanks Jyrki), that he's just a victim of circumstance. Anton snorts disbelievingly, Carmen and Grayson slap him on the back and say jovially that they didn't know he had it in him, and the more he protests his innocence, the smirkier they get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vinny can do it himself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [youcouldmakealife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/gifts).



> This is fanfic for youcouldmakealife's original hockey series Vinny Gets A Life and the characters will not be familiar without having read that. It's sort-of-AU-Hockey-RPF. If you love hockey and you haven't read it yet, what are you waiting for?
> 
> Thanks to youcouldmakealife for creating such a wonderful sandbox and allowing us to play in it.

Thomas will swear, in English, French, or Finnish (thanks Jyrki), that he's just a victim of circumstance. Anton snorts disbelievingly, Carmen and Grayson slap him on the back and say jovially that they didn't know he had it in him, and the more he protests his innocence, the smirkier they get. Shut up Tony, smirkier is totally a word.

 

It’s a game late in the season and the Habs are down by two goals when the third period starts, Thomas replacing Fournier. The first two periods were filled with roughing and boarding calls; each team has a skater in the quiet room, and Player Safety will be making a few phone calls the next day.

Fournier taps him on the butt to show there's no hard feelings as Thomas goes on the ice. Normally Fournier wouldn’t get pulled that quickly but the mood is snarly as Boston has a slim chance to move into a play off slot. They must win three of their last four games, while the Habs can coast into the playoffs if necessary. Thomas knows he’s expendable, Coach not wanting to risk Fournier with the way the Bruins have been running him at every opportunity.

Boston forwards continue to park their asses in the crease, and five minutes into the period Thomas is already sick of looking at their massive butts. Vast expanses of black nylon aside (Habs blue is much more restful on the eyes, just saying), he's also tired of getting snowed on every save. He discretely gives a few whacks with his blocker when the officials aren't looking, to give himself some breathing room. Literally, as he suspects they all had beans for breakfast as a form of chemical warfare.

The last straw is when Daniels “accidentally” knocks Thomas’ water bottle to the ice and steps on it as he comes around the net after the whistle. “Oh, hey, hey, sorry about that, Vincent,” he says insincerely, “No harm done, eh?” and skates away, chuckling. Thomas picks his leaking bottle off the ice and puts it away. He sees a linesman looking his way and glares, but the linesman mimes a “what can you do” shrug and turns his attention to the incipient faceoff.

The Habs fans are restless, fickle, ready to boo their own team for poor performance almost as fast as they'll jeer the opponents. A scramble at the other end results in a goal, and discontented mutters turn to relieved cheers. The action flows back up the ice again, Thomas makes a couple of saves, and gets the expected snow shower and a “tripping” Bruin who pushes him back into the net after the whistle. But he’s got the puck secured in his glove and offers it up to the official.

Anton hauls the Bruin out by the back of his jersey and the murderous expression stays on his face as he gets the puck from Lapointe on the faceoff. He slams it to the boards, where it ricochets over the blue line and towards the Bruins. He follows it down the ice, outpacing the forwards, and viciously jabs it over the line to tie the game up.

During the ensuing TV timeout Anton swings by on his way to the bench. “You OK?” he asks. “I saw that. I’ll put the bastard over the boards.”

Thomas rolls his eyes, although the protectiveness makes his stomach fizz a little in interesting ways. “I can handle it myself, Tony. Just keep scoring.”

“I’m trying!” Anton snaps, and goes to the bench, huffy.

Whatever. Thomas totally has this.

 

With the game tied up and a minute to go, the Bruins get a breakaway: Daniels and his left wing, with only one lone Habs defender in place to stop them. Both benches are on their feet shouting, but Thomas tunes it all out and settles himself, calculating trajectories and velocities. The defenseman breaks up the pass with a desperate lunge that sends the puck to the boards and tangles the skates of the Bruins wing. Whistles blow for a penalty and Daniels, realizing they’ve lost this scoring chance, comes in feet first on a slide that would bring a tear to the eye of any first base coach. Thomas steps sideways and Daniels goes past him, ending up sprawled on his back across the goal mouth. Thomas trips on Daniels' abandoned stick and falls back, arms windmilling.

He lands butt first on Daniels' midsection, savoring the explosive “Fuck” and desperate wheeze for air from underneath the 220 pounds that is a mid-size goaltender plus equipment. After a moment he flops back to rest his head on the ice inside the net. Masks weigh a lot and he’s tired. He looks up at the inside of the crossbar. An interesting perspective. He should lie here and study it some more. Daniels scrabbles with his skates and gloves, trying futilely to get enough leverage to shove him off. Thomas continues to placidly inspect the crossbar, with one leg splayed out and braced just inside the post. Goalies are heavy and ice is slippery. Who knew?

The referee skates over and leans on said crossbar, looking down through the net impartially. "All right, Vincent?" he asks.

"Something's caught," Thomas says pathetically. He props himself up on one elbow, conveniently located over Daniels' groin, and points towards his foot. Daniels swears again, violently, and the referee tugs lightly on the netting. Thomas says, "Thanks!" brightly and makes sure there’s a knee in Daniels' stomach as he rolls over and levers himself to his feet, ostentatiously flexing his ankle. "Sorry about that," he says, "but no harm done, right?"

With the official right there, watching benignly, Daniels glares and grits out a “yeah, whatthefuckever,” and skates to his bench, hunched over. He’ll have bruised ribs tomorrow, as bad as any hit into the boards, Thomas thinks with satisfaction.

The eventual winning goal is a deflection off the skate of a Bruins defender 30 seconds into overtime. The black and gold uniforms slink off, somehow smaller, while ebullient Habs spill over the boards. Fournier joins the skaters on the ice as they congratulate Thomas with shoulder slaps and fist bumps. He grabs the back of Thomas’ neck and presses their foreheads together. “I knew you were a sneaky motherfucker, Tommo,” he says approvingly. Behind his mask Thomas widens his eyes innocently. “I didn’t do anything,” he protests.

 

In the locker room they sit companionably side by side to take their gear off and Fournier recaps with broad gestures how everything looked from the bench and who said what, while Anton sullenly strips and glowers at the stream of giggles and sunny smiles punctuating the locker room chatter.


End file.
